Journal of the International Society for Orthodox Church
Music
Vol. 4 (1), Section I: Peer-reviewed Articles, pp. 14–29 ISSN
2342-1258 https://journal.fi/jisocm
A Movie with the Structure of Byzantine Liturgy: Megalexandros by
Theo Angelopoulos
Serafim Seppälä
[email protected]
Theo Angelopoulos is indisputably the most remarkable Greek
director of all times. His films are famous for their meditative
slowness and beautiful scenery. In recent years, they have been
much discussed and analysed in academic studies. Typically, critics
and scholars have focused on two levels. Firstly, much attention
has been paid to his distinctive technical solutions such as long
shots (up to ten minutes!), 360-degree rotating (circular) shots,
prolonged pacing,1 and the use of off-screen action and dead
spaces. These lead to questions related to his conception of time,2
such as the presence of different time layers, even inside one
shot. Secondly, a great deal has been written about the social and
political aspects, which is not surprising, given the leftist moods
and symbolism present in his films, not to mention his concern with
human rights and victims of political events, including
refugees.
Nonetheless, the most essential characteristic and dominant feature
of Angelopoulos’s films is the peaceful flow of extremely beautiful
and elegant settings. His visual narratives are slow and peaceful
but not without dramatic tensions and thematic depth, and
consequently, his work has been labelled “a cinema of
contemplation.”3
Matters related to Orthodox and Byzantine aesthetics, however, have
not been thoroughly discussed in studies on Angelopoulos, though
they are often mentioned in passing. His most Byzantine film is
obviously Megalexandros (1980), a three and half hour mystical epic
full of obscure narration and peculiar symbolism, much of which
more or less Orthodox.4 It was filmed mostly in Dotsiko, a tiny and
remote village in the mountains of Northern Greece.
1 In films, “pacing” signifies the rhythm (flow) of the scene in
conjunction with the overall sequence; in the case of Angelopoulos,
this rhythm is exceptionally slow and dramatic. 2 Richard Rushton,
“Angelopoulos and the Time-image,” in The Cinema of Theo
Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos Koutsourakis & Mark Steven (Edinburgh
University Press, 2015), 23548. Asbjörn Grönstad, “’Nothing Ever
Ends’: Angelopoulos and the Image of Duration,” in The Cinema of
Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos Koutsourakis & Mark Steven
(Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 264274. Sylvie Rollet, “An
‘Untimely’ History,” in The Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos, ed.
Angelos Koutsourakis & Mark Steven (Edinburgh University Press,
2015), 21930. 3 Andrew Horton, Theo Angelopoulos: A Cinema of
Contemplation (Princeton University Press, 1999). 4 For a synopsis
with discussion, see Lefteris Xanthopoulos, “Τραγωδα και μθος.
Θδωρος Αγγελπουλος,” in Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Irini Stathi (53rd
Thessaloniki International Film Festival, 2012), 23033. English
translation in 2347.
JISOCM Vol. 4 (1), 14–29
In interviews, Angelopoulos himself stated that the film is
“structured like a Byzantine liturgy.”5 What this means and implies
has not been analysed in film studies, even though Angelopoulos
openly admitted the influence of icons, Byzantine aesthetics and
Orthodox culture on his work.6 This being so, this paper aims to
outline those structures and solutions in Megalexandros that can be
seen as “Byzantine” and “liturgical.” The visual narrative of the
film is analysed in the light of Angelopoulos’s interviews and
recent scholarship, with the aim of outlining some liturgical
characteristics in the structure of the film. The Orthodox
liturgical tradition7 serves as a loose subtext with the help of
which I aim to distinguish a few explicit and implicit parallels
between the visual narrative of Angelopoulos and the
“liturgical”.
In analysing cinematic narration, it is essential to note that
Angelopoulos himself believed in plurality of meaning: one sense
does not exclude the other. He consciously aimed to create polysemy
that allows for multiple readings and leaves space for
interpretation. His idea was that the interpretations of audiences
from various cultures and backgrounds complete and conclude the
“process of synthesis” for the plurality of meanings.8 In that
sense, we all are as if invited to participate in, and contribute
to, the semantic signification process of his visual imagery.
Furthermore, Angelopoulos firmly opposed the idea of having a
dichotomy between content and form. For example, if a given scene
has a highly aesthetic and poetical character, this does not
exclude political meanings in it.9 These principles apply to
religious interpretations as well: they represent a dimension of
their own without challenging leftist or other interpretations. It
is clear, however, that in the case of Megalexandros, spiritual or
national-religious interpretations are especially relevant.
In many of Angelopoulos’s films, there are evident parallelisms
with Orthodox iconography. It is characteristic for his aesthetic
vision that he aimed to create “mythical landscapes” that portray
people “in a dialectical relationship with space.”10 This aim is
parallel to Byzantine iconography with its mystical landscapes full
of signifying details; moreover, the dialectical aim serves to
provide some semantic plurality to the scene itself. In this paper,
however, I shall deal with the allusions to iconography very
briefly and concentrate on the “liturgical structures”
instead.
The identity of Megalexandros
For Angelopoulos, cinematic landscapes are “primarily projections
of an inner space”, and therefore he aimed to design and construct
mythical landscapes.11 In this particular film, the mythical
landscape is a very complex one. To begin with, perhaps
5 Gerald O’Grady, “Angelopoulos’s Philosophy of Film,” in Theo
Angelopoulos Interviews, ed. Dan Fainaru (Jackson: University Press
of Mississippi, 2001), 723. See also ITA (documentary film). 6
Andrew Horton, “National Culture and Individual Vision,” in Theo
Angelopoulos Interviews, ed. Dan Fainaru (Jackson: University Press
of Mississippi, 2001), 867. 7 For those unfamiliar with the
Orthodox liturgy, there exist many works explaining its structure
and contents from the traditional theological and spiritual
standpoints. Of the contemporary Greek works, the most
recommendable introductions are Hieromonk Gregorios, The Divine
Liturgy: a Commentary in the Light of the Fathers (Mount Athos:
Cell of St John the Theologian, Koutlomousiou Monastery, 2011) and
Emmanuel Hatzidakis, The Heavenly Banquet. Understanding the Divine
Liturgy (Columbia: Orthodox Witness, 2008). In order to grasp the
intent of this article, however, one should go to the church and
observe the liturgical atmosphere, instead of reading about its
discursive meanings. 8 Theo Angelopoulos, “Synthesis in Cinema,”
Scroope: Cambridge Architecture Journal 18 (2011), 22. 9 This was
his response to some criticism from the political left regarding
his somewhat mystical use of red flags in the most iconic scene of
The Hunters. Angelopoulos, “Synthesis in Cinema,” 14. 10
Angelopoulos, “Synthesis in Cinema,” 18–19. He seems to imply that
“space” is not only a circumstantial background for the actual
storyline but plays a role in itself and contributes significantly
to how the actors are perceived and the overall content
constituted. 11 The aim shows in settings Angelopoulos, “Synthesis
in Cinema,” 19.
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the most essential and most astonishing element of Megalexandros is
the use of a collective subject. Even though at the outset the
movie appears to be about a super hero, ultimately this is not the
case at all. Consequently, the film has been seriously
misinterpreted or even “disinterpreted”, for the best books on
Angeloupoulos’s films12 more or less skip the whole film, on
account of its difficulty. One scholar even defines the approach
used in the film as “esoteric format.”13 The leading authority on
the Greek cinema, Vrasidas Karalis, misunderstands the film from
the very beginning and reads it like a Hollywood film, taking it as
a story of an individual hero and his personal development. In the
end Karalis views Megalexandros as a film that explores “power and
its corrupting influence on charismatic personalities” and relates
how an individual hero becomes corrupted: “power makes him cruel,
inconsiderate, and tyrannical”.14
The failures in understanding this film are largely due to the fact
that the whole idea of a collective subject is in absolute
contradiction to the principles of Hollywood films that have taught
us to watch simple stories with simple solutions achieved by simple
heroes. It is only recently, decades after the film was released,
that several scholars have analysed the peculiar emphasis on the
collective in Megalexandros. Murphet even calls the film a “supreme
apotheosis of group cinematography.”15 In short, Angelopoulos is
not depicting a hero but the collective soul of Greek villagers.
The story is not about a super hero but about collective yearn for
a redeemer, and ultimately, about the lack of one. The collective
hrs reflects the “Greek soul”, which is not a simple or homogenous
concept but something extremely complex indeed: a mixture of layers
and eras.16 Given that the category of collective is the driving
force in the traditional Greek village life, it is only consistent
and natural to use it as a principle of interpretation.
This being the case, the Alexander figure is not Alexander the
Great or his reincarnation, in spite of the prevailing
misunderstandings on the issue. The subject is a complex synthesis
of divergent aspects from various historical layers and substrates.
One may differentiate five main layers.
First, Alexander is fundamentally a figure of mediaeval Christian
lore. Historically, “Megalexandros” is a messianic figure whom
Christians under Islamic rule expected to appear from
Constantinople in order to redeem them from the Islamic yoke. The
roots of this lore originate from the seventh century
Syriac-speaking Christians of the Middle East,17 but the legend
soon became popular among Greeks, and after the Ottoman conquests,
it continued to grow in Greek popular culture. In spite of
the
12 The collection of essays edited by Horton in 1997, as well as
Horton’s monograph (1999) analyse the other early films thoroughly
in their chapters, but Megalexandros only briefly and cursorily. 13
Dan Georgakas, “Megalexandros: Authoritarianism and National
Identity,” The Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos
Koutsourakis & Mark Steven (Edinburgh University Press, 2015),
136. 14 Vrasidas Karalis, A History of Greek Cinema (New York &
London: Continuum, 2012), 191. 15 Julian Murphet, “Cinematography
of the Group: Angelopoulos and the Collective Subject of Cinema,”
in The Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos Koutsourakis &
Mark Steven (Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 168. 16 Similarly,
in Angelopoulos’s movies there is a tendency to create collages of
Greek identity by presenting processes of transformation: a market
turns into theatre, a theatre into refugee camp (Weeping meadow),
an empty unfinished building into a mortuary chapel, and a church
into a place of execution, as in Megalexandros. For discussion, see
Caroline Eades, “The Narrative Imperative in the Films of Theo
Angelopoulos,” in The Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos
Koutsourakis & Mark Steven (Edinburgh University Press, 2015),
186. 17 The earliest source is so-called Pseudo-Methodius, the
Greek text of which is published in Pseudo- Methodius, Apocalypse:
An Alexandrian World Chronicle, ed. Benjamin Garstad (London:
Harvard University Press, 2012). Pseudo-Methodius was widely read
in Europe during the Ottoman siege of Vienna, but was later
forgotten.
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popularity and importance of this lore in mediaeval times, it was
forgotten in the West, which alone makes the movie rather esoteric
in Western eyes.
Secondly, the figure literally carries some symbolism from
Alexander the Great: in particular, his famous helmet. This is
historically interconnected with the previous level, given that the
traditional Christian Alexander lore was initially inspired by
Alexander the Great. The so-called Alexander Romance was popular
already in early Eastern Christendom, circulating in several
languages and in different versions.18 Subsequently, in the
Christian literature of the Islamic era he became a kind of
archetype of the victorious emperor expected to arrive before the
end of time to liberate Christians in their traditional areas such
as Syria, Turkey, Egypt, and above all, Jerusalem.
Thirdly, there are elements from the myths of ancient Greece. The
story contains elements from the tragedies of antiquity, such as an
array of relations between certain characters. However, these
appear only randomly: elements from the myths of antiquity are
merged into the main narrative and its collective urge. One may
also note that the use of singing and chanting in the film seems to
bear some resemblance to the role of choirs in the plays of
classical antiquity. The choirs and their dialogues loosely
personify fate and its turns.
Fourthly, the subject also appears in the role of St George, the
sacred protector of Christians. Traditionally, he has been
especially popular wherever Christians have been subjugated and
deprived of full rights, as was the case under the Islamic law. As
a mythical archetype of a salvific protector, St George represents
the very same archetypal function as the Alexander of mediaeval
lore.
Fifthly, there are some modern layers, which serve as the setting
for the story. The basic idea of the plot bears resemblance to
certain events from 1870,19 though Angelopoulos has set them into
the year 1900,20 which plainly symbolises the turn from the
mediaeval to the modern. Furthermore, there appear modern phenomena
such as communism,21 Italian anarchism, even tourism. All these are
utopias of their own kind, which answer to people’s collective
yearning.
In total, the layers constitute a symbolic personality who embodies
ancient and modern mythologies. In the words of Georgakas, the
“webs of identity and relationships are so complex and ambiguous
that the viewer must accept the characters not as individuals but
as generations of characters.”22
The use of a collective subject in a film that apparently seems to
be structured around an individual hero is certainly a brave and
ambiguous solution. Some critics, such as Horton, consider the film
less successful for the reason that Angelopoulos tries “to cover
too much territory in one work.”23 Perhaps Horton in this case
failed to see the wood for the trees, which indeed may easily
happen with this film, but it must be admitted that the scenery is
exceedingly complex and heterogeneous, at
18 To begin with, see David Zuwiyya, A Companion to Alexander
Literature in the Middle Ages (Leiden: Brill, 2011). 19 In 1870, a
group of Englishmen was kidnapped by Greek bandits from Marathon,
but Megalexandros is set at 1900, at the turn of the new century,
symbolising the change from the mediaeval to the modern. 20 See
discussion in Dan Georgakas, “Megalexandros,” 13031. 21 “[I]n
Megalexandros the nineteenth-century mythical figure of the Greek
bandit and the Byzantine myth of the legend of Megalexandros, who
saves the Greeks from Turkish domination, delineate the drama of
the failed early twentieth-century socialist experiment taking
place in the film’s fabula; still these mythical references are
formulas used to comment on the present, and in particular, on the
political impasse of the Greek Left and the Eastern Bloc of the
period.” Angelos Koutsourakis, “The Gestus of Showing,” in The
Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos Koutsourakis & Mark
Steven (Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 74. 22 Georgakas,
“Megalexandros,” 134. 23 Andrew Horton, The Last Modernist: The
Films of Theo Angelopoulos (Trowbridge: Flicks Books, 1997),
64.
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least for the big audience. Even Angelopoulos himself in his later
films returned to “individual subjectivity” in which the focus is
on the leading protagonist and his individual experiences.24
St George failing
The film is full of ambivalence of powers and tension of values
between poles such as modernism and traditionalism, east and west,
poetic and banal, sacred and profane. The ambivalence culminates in
a bizarre scene in which Alexander appears as seen by the eyes of
tourists, as kitsch of a kind. The hrs literally poses against a
cheap iconic background, on a white horse, playing the part of
Saint George. The hrs himself is absent-minded and silent, but
carries out a task that remains unvoiced and unexplained.
IMAGE 1. Megalexandros posing as St George.
This puzzling scene seems to indicate that the hrs, expected for
centuries, is no more than the trivial kitsch that he had de facto
turned into among the people, and this makes him unable to fill the
original function of a saintly hero. In other words, the world has
changed so much that it transforms the hrs into its own likeness,
so that he is unable to live as he did in the chants that used to
herald his arrival and praise him.
It is telling that the folk hymn referring to Alexander as St
George (during his triumphal entry and Eucharistic scene: see
below) appears pure and archaic, but it seems to come from the past
and refer back to the past. In our modern world, St George’s
holiness seems to fade and does not carry him to heroic deeds; the
Great Alexander is no longer able to rule or conquer.
Overall, Alexander is characterized by inner ambivalence. The Greek
saviour figure overwhelms with inner contradictions, because he
carries in himself the mythical ingredients of antiquity, Alexander
the Great, Byzantium and Post- Byzantine village culture, as well
as the modern myths of communism, and even bizarre demands of
tourism. Because of this enormous collective burden, he is helpless
and dysfunctional. Ultimately, he manages to function only post
mortem,
24 For discussion, see Eades, “The Narrative Imperative,”
178.
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after having left the worldly life and returned to the world of
intangible ideas, as the very end of the film shows. He leaves
behind no body but a detached head of a statue (see image 5); a
dead stone is invulnerable and invincible.
Given that the film does not portray an individual but collective
yearning for salvation, it is ultimately this yearning which is
ambivalent and heterogeneous and therefore dysfunctional.
Correspondingly, the village is internally divided and outwardly
surrounded by troops, but the real enemy is invisible. In the words
of Georgakas, “the authoritarian monster is as much an inner demon
as an outside villain.”25
Liturgical structures
Now we may proceed to locate the actual “liturgical structures” in
this peculiar work. First, we may note that the film contains a few
explicitly iconic or sacramental scenes. When entering the village
in the beginning of his mission, Alexander is cheered in a
messianic way, reminding one of the atmosphere of Palm Sunday. Then
he is shown to pour water on the heads of children like St John the
Baptist, constituting an explicit baptismal scene. Moreover, there
is a classical Eucharistic scene à la Da Vinci. All these appear
with no explications or clarifications.
IMAGE 2. Eucharistic scene à la Da Vinci.
The iconic scenes are dramatized with epic folk singing performed
in a dramatic fashion and somewhat chaotic tuning, which creates a
mystical impact and an archaic semi-liturgical impression. The
chant about a saintly hero explicitly identifies Megalexandros with
St George, revealing the composite character of the subject:
Holy the bread, holy the wine, holy the hay for the horse.
Alexander the Great, you are the wind and St George, slayer of the
dragon Holy the silence, holy the sound, holy the great word.
Alexander the Great, you are the sun and St George, slayer of the
dragon.26
25 Georgakas, “Megalexandros,” 139. 26 Translation used in the film
(42:20–44:28).
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The opening line of the chant seems to have a peculiar ironic
leftist side-taste, for it corresponds to Feuerbach’s conclusion on
the essence of Christianity, well known to Marx.27 This is an
astonishing example of Angelopoulos’s ability to create scenes that
may serve different, even opposite perspectives: one may take the
scene as a solemn expression of the mystical essence of
Christianity, or as a parodic mockery of its degenerateness.
However, even such explicitly sacramental or iconic references are
not yet enough to make a film “liturgical”, details as they are.
Liturgical structures rather have to do with the general flow and
narrative manoeuvres of the film. What exactly did Angelopoulos
mean with liturgical structures in this sense, and how did he
understand the “liturgical”?
Even though Angelopoulos sympathised with the political left, he
admitted that the Orthodox Church was an important part of his
cultural “if not religious” life and openly admitted its influence
in his aesthetic touch.28 For this very reason, however, his
perspective on liturgical life seems to have been that of an
outsider. This means that liturgy appeared to him not as schematic
structure of theological units (anaphora, epiclesis etc.) with
certain meanings and functions, but rather in a “phenomenological
way”, as a specific mode of being. In other words, the “liturgical”
refers to the content of mind and consciousness during one’s
presence in a liturgical space and setting. Thus, the crucial
question is: what is it like to be in a liturgy? How does an
outsider construct his experience of liturgical presence into one
whole? And finally, how is this structured into a film?
IMAGE 3. A ritual scene in Megalexandros
The answer starts to unfold from the most ambiguous and opaque
parts of the movie. The film contains several ritual and ceremonial
scenes that serve to create magical moods. The men in the village
suddenly unite into a slow circular movement that is suggestive of
some mystical ritual. What occurs is not explained or
commented
27 “Holy the water, Holy the Bread, Holy the Wine” See Rudolf
Schlesinger, Marx: His Times and Ours (New York: Routledge, 2011,
the first edition 1950), 334. 28 Interview made by Horton 1992, in
Fainaru, Theo Angelopoulos Interviews, 86–87.
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on in any way; the action simply takes place. An unexplained flow
of ceremonial occurrences is of course very characteristic of
liturgical action.
Artists seldom give interpretations or meanings for the symbolism
they have employed, but Angelopoulos in one interview did explain
this very circle, which served to explain what he meant by the
Byzantine liturgical character of the film:
There was even the notion of the circle within the film. The
concept also used to mark a place of privilege. A place where
everything happens. It’s the place where the village is located, a
place viewed as a circle.29
In this way, Angelopoulos presented the age-old flow of village
life in the form of a symbolistic circle and ritualistic movement.
His intention was to use “slow and fast internal rhythms” in long
shots in order to create a ceremonial element, which exists “in the
form of a theatrical gesture that needs to be completed in a
specific timing”.30 In other words, the movement and its timing is
“liturgical”, since it functions in a liturgical way, even though
its reference is in the earthly life.
Furthermore, the film employs at certain times communication with
off-screen recipients who are not shown. This device is unusual in
films, but corresponds to the basic flow of liturgical activity. In
the Orthodox worship, the reciter, priest or choir may be out of
sight, but the voice and the events keep on flowing nevertheless.
Ultimately, the whole idea of liturgy is to serve the unseen and to
address the invisible the “Great off-screen recipient”.
Even more importantly, the main character of the film appears to
act in a way that has noteworthy parallels with procedures of the
leader of the liturgical action, as they appear to those in the
Church. First, lack of emotion is a striking feature, especially in
the case of the main figure. Indeed, “lack of a strong individual
identity deprived the film of emotional energy”, as Georgakas
observed.31 This is an essential “liturgical” feature in the
narrative flow, for the stressing of emotions or emotionality has
no place in the Orthodox liturgy or liturgical thinking.
Moreover, the odd impersonality of the central figure has a clear
parallelism with the liturgical experience. In the liturgical
action, the leader and his personality is not emphasised, and he
does not speak his own words. On the contrary, the liturgy goes on
regardless of whether the leader is seen or unseen, what he is
thinking, how he is feeling. In that sense, the liturgical
atmosphere appears quite fatalistic: it goes as it must go, and
there is no way to change it by individual means. Indeed, the only
words that Alexander speaks during the whole movie are “It had to
happen.”32
The Alexander figure seems to act and make effect in the midst of
his community merely through being present, instead of ordinary
communication. In that sense, he is like a leader of liturgy,
concentrated on what must happen. A silent character, Alexander
does not lead by his words, but by his presence and position, and
ultimately, by the expectations of the community. He seems tired,
somewhat overweight, partly sad, non-dynamic, non-innovative, and
the events simply whirl around him. Many of these characteristics
may apply to bishops that one sees in pontifical liturgies.
Liturgical rituals proceed in their prearranged course, regardless
of what kind of personality there is inside the “Byzantine figure”
leading them.
29 “Interview with Theo Angelopoulos” (documentary film). 30
O’Grady, “Angelopoulos’s Philosophy of Film,” 723. In this very
context, Angelopoulos stated that Megalexandros is “structured like
a Byzantine liturgy”. 31 Georgakas, “Megalexandros,” 137. 32 The
words are said in a dramatic context, as an explanation for a
murder. We may note here that the actor was not Greek but Italian,
Omero Antonutti (19352019).
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In other words, Alexander leads his community in a way that is
analogous to the way in which a bishop leads a liturgical event: he
is an epicentre of the flow of events, but cannot make any actual
personal contributions to their course. This is of course very much
unlike Hollywood heroes who, in this sense, represent the
“aesthetics of evangelical preachers,” in the case of which the
dramatic turns created by personal feelings and wordings are
decisive.
Moreover, the scenes repeatedly develop a strong sense of the
presence of sacred, almost unparalleled in the world of cinema.
This is created not only by mystical, ceremonial or slow movement,
but perhaps even more so by the specific use of music.
The use of music in Megalexandros
For Angelopoulos, the most important musical element was silence.
In Hunters (1977), he told the actors to count numbers in their
minds in order to make the silent sequences long enough. Expanding
on this, he affirmed that “silence needs to function in an almost
musical way, not to be fabricated through cuts or through dead
shots but to exist internally inside the shot.”33 Even silence was
not an individual category, however. Groups in his films are
“uniquely sustained by a prodigious silence amongst themselves,”34
as Murphet defines.
In his three first movies, Angelopoulos had used music in a very
restricted manner: there was no systematic use of background music,
only a few specific pieces that were a part of the actual plot and
performed by the actors. Megalexandros was the first Angelopoulos
film in which music played a decisive role. The archaic music has
unusual functions in the narrative, in which it serves to
invigorate, dramatize, and ultimately, turn the course of events.
Angelopoulos in fact called the film “completely a Greek Orthodox
or Byzantine work” for the very reason that it is “constructed on
many elements of the Orthodox liturgy, combining music, ritual,” in
addition to the role of the icon.35 In short, he used
non-liturgical music in a liturgical way, raising a strong wall of
sound with a folk chorus resembling a Byzantine male choir:
I started with Alexander the Great where music is used in a
different way. The music is structured like film… made around the
concept of… a Byzantine Mass. And we had to use the solos, the
chorus, basso-continuo, as well as the human voice. We had to
construct a musical universe which would relate to a mass.36
The idea was to create a wall of sound, tinted with certain
“eastern” roughness and discordance, which breaks the silence and
starts a new phase in the narrative. This parallels to the
liturgical moment in which the people sense how the ordinary turns
to the musical in the Greek rite; monotonic reading comes to an
end, and the ison (drone) sound creates a feeling that now
something is beginning to happen: a new phase that is something
mysterious, powerful, archaic, and very Eastern. Angelopoulos aimed
to create similar effects with different components:
Since the structure of the film is that of Byzantine liturgical
music, I chose very old folk music played on antique instruments
and used them in the liturgical tradition, alternating between
solos and ensemble pieces.37
33 Angelopoulos, “Synthesis in Cinema,” 72. 34 Murphet,
“Cinematography of the Group,” 169. 35 Interview made by Horton
1992, in Fainaru, Theo Angelopoulos Interviews, 86–87. 36 Interview
with Theo Angelopoulos (documentary film). 37 The interview in Dan
Fainaru, Theo Angelopoulos Interviews (Jackson: University Press of
Mississippi, 2001), 138. Angelopoulos seems to mean having used
instruments “in accordance with the musical conventions of
liturgical tradition:” they are used as if they were human
voices.
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In the liturgical flow of the narrative, a powerful
“semi-liturgical”, Byzantine-styled chant or music appears in
certain key scenes in order to create mystical moods and senses of
mystical presence before the turn of events. No singers are shown,
not even when the singing is heard by the characters; the voice
belongs to the collective. It is a communal and timeless echo,
voiced by the whole community, by all generations. Both the sound
itself and its utilisation in the visual narrative are
characterised by the sense of timelessness brought by the
resonances of the past. The function of the voice in the narration
is to arouse mystical awe and create an extraordinary yet undefined
presence that appears to be a presence of the sacred, but also that
of the vanished past.
In Greece, the sacred and the vanished past are almost the same,
for the latter means above all the Byzantine commonwealth, known
for its thoroughly Orthodox character. For Angelopoulos, Byzantine
music was something coming from the east, from the lost world (in
view of the fact that Byzantine aesthetics developed and flourished
mainly in the Middle East), and the present Greece is between East
and West.
As a matter of fact, in this film I used two types of music the
Byzantine and that of the Italian anarchists who had their own
songs. In a way, it is the juxtaposition of the Orient and the
Occident. With Greece, of course, in the middle.38
The tragedy in Megalexandros is that Western and Eastern melodies
are incommensurable and they cannot be synchronized. The Greek soul
is tuned in a way that cannot be synchronized or harmonized with
Western tuning. On the explicit level of the story, the Western and
Eastern melodies and ways of singing end up in conflict on two
occasions. This very conflict finally leads to the slaughter of the
western hostages, which constitutes nothing less than the key turn
in the plot. Even this is not explained with a single word, which
is again a liturgical characteristic: liturgy contains no
explanations.
This all bears some relevance also in relation to the historical
context. The Megalexandros story is set in the era when Western
influences arrived in Greece in music and the other arts, producing
endless discussions on what is “Greek” and what is not. One of the
most famous authors of that time, Alexandros Papadiamandis
(18511911) described the setting as follows:
Byzantine music is as Greek as it needs to be: We neither want it
to be, nor do we imagine it to be, the music of the ancient Greeks.
But it is the only authentic [music] and the only existing [music].
And for us, if it is not the music of the Greeks, then it is the
music of the Angels.39
In addition to the paraliturgical chanting, the film includes one
traditional liturgical hymn, the Troparion of the Cross,40 which
appears in the narration as a power that seems to function by
itself. This is a striking example of how the category of the
38 The interview in Dan Fainaru, Theo Angelopoulos Interviews
(Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2001), 138. 39
Alexandros Papadiamandis, “Excerpts of Thoughts,” Apanta, vol. 5,
240; quoted and discussed in Anestis Keselopoulos, Lessons From a
Greek Island: From the “Saint of Greek Letters,”Alexandros
Papadiamandis (Protecting Veil, 2011), 174. 40 Σσον Κριε τν λαν σου
κα ελγησον τν κληρονομαν σου, νκας τος Βασιλεσι κατ βαρβρων
δωρομενος κα τ σν φυλττων, δι το Σταυρο σου, πολτευμα. “Save, o
Lord, your people and bless your inheritance, granting to the
Emperor victory over the Barbarians, protecting the commonwealth
with your Cross.” (πολυτκιον το Σταυρο, χος α.) Similar pleas occur
in the hymnography of the Sunday vigil and other liturgical
contexts, some of them probably written by St John of Damascus. It
is essential to realize that such verses were not “military hymns”
from Constantinople but pleas of freedom from the Orthodox
Christians under Islamic rule in the Middle East. For this very
reason, the use of the Troparion in Megalexandros fits perfectly
with the Christian Alexander legend.
JISOCM Vol. 4 (1), 14–29
24
collective has a dominant position in the narrative. Specifically,
the hymn is first sung by fake monks whose singing is openly shown;
it yields no real results. Then it is sung by the invisible
collective subject, and it is their singing which is more powerful
than that of individuals. Though the singers are not shown, their
chant has the power to turn the course of events. This again
corresponds to the liturgical experience in which singing is
perceived, and may elevate the listener, even if the singers are
not observable, as is often the case in Orthodox churches.
Likewise, in liturgical life the collective voice of the Church is
the dominating one; the songs of individuals are fake songs.
The original historical context in which the Troparion of the Cross
emerged was the same milieu in which the Christian Megalexandros
legend arose: the Christian Middle East of the seventh-eighth
centuries. The hymn originally expressed the hope of liberation
from the Islamic yoke, which during the centuries became more and
more utopic, as Christians slowly turned into minorities throughout
the Middle East and Asia Minor. After the Ottoman conquest of
Constantinople, the hope became even more unrealistic. In that
sense, the hymn expresses a central motif in the collective psyche
of mediaeval Greeks, and its traditional uses throughout history
constitute a collective echo in the liturgical experience, even
today. When it is sang at a victorious context, as in
Megalexandros, it creates a sense of an ancient utopia being
fulfilled for the time being.
It is not only sounds but also the lack of them that appears to
have parallelisms. Namely, liturgical experience consists of an
unceasing flow of voice, and a period of silence gives rise to a
restless feeling that something may be wrong. Correspondingly, in
Megalexandros silence functions also as a sign of absence that may
constitute a threatening element. In one silent scene, a man enters
an empty monastery, as if he were trying to make contact with
something, but the mystical timeless voice never appears, and this
failure results in his sudden death.
Grand finales
Because of the presence of several time-layers, the film also seems
to have several endings in a row. Even this phenomenon is present
in the liturgical expression of the Orthodox Church. In both cases,
the plurality of endings results from the presence of different
time-layers in one act.
Firstly, the story ends and culminates in theophagia, “God-eating”.
The village, functioning as one collective, silently surrounds and
devours the Alexander figure, thus absorbing the messianic
character into themselves. Angelopoulos himself stated that one of
the reasons why Megalexandros is “completely a Greek Orthodox or
Byzantine work” is that it culminates in “catharsis through
blood”.41 The mythic leader, anticipated for centuries, is absorbed
by the same people from whom he had come. “The cinematography of
the group can go no further”,42 as Murphet remarked. In addition,
however, Eucharistic connotations are obvious: the liturgy of
Megalexandros culminates in participating in the redeemer figure
through absorbing him.
41 Interview by Horton 1992, in Fainaru, Theo Angelopoulos
Interviews, 86–87. The notion of course applies also to the calm
acts of murder that seem to serve some unvoiced purpose in the
film. 42 Murphet, “Cinematography of the Group,” 169.
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IMAGE 4. The death of Alexander.
Ultimately, what the villages devour into themselves is not an
individual but the collective past. More practically speaking, when
the Greeks leave their villages and enter the cities of the new
era, they have this fragmentary past with its confused utopias and
yearnings in themselves. In 1980, Greeks were just one generation
from village life, and the collective identity was characterised by
“the brutality and beauty of village life” that represented an
organic continuity with the distant past, as Georgakas
observed.43
The second ending is constituted by the encounter with the memory
of the deceased hero. Leaving behind only a head of statue,
Alexander is reborn as a relic of antiquity. He is no longer
vulnerable, no longer of this world; he has returned to the world
of myth and enclosed in its sacredness. This is how the myths live:
the people gives birth to its heroes, eliminates and devours them,
and continues to live with their remembrance, which in turn shall
generate for the hero new incarnations in novel forms.
The death of the hero by being absorbed by the villagers, and the
mysterious disappearance of his body, is the most extreme and most
intense example of the presence of the sacred in the film. The
sense of sacredness is intensified by the use of music. A dramatic
and mystical wall of sound intensifies in the background, and the
sense of growing awe in the scene is so strong that even the
soldiers must ultimately flee. Here one may identify an association
with the soldiers at the sepulchre of Christ.44 Overall, the scene
is impressive indeed; it is telling that some scholars mention the
death of Alexander as the “single greatest sequence” in
Angelopoulos’s career.45
43 Georgakas, “Megalexandros,” 134. 44 Mt 28:4. In liturgical
terms, the movement backwards echoes certain liturgical acts such
as the procession in the Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts, one of
the most mystical moments in the liturgical year. 45 Murphet,
“Cinematography of the Group,” 169.
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IMAGE 5. The mythical remains of Alexander.
The scene also crystallizes the view of history represented by the
film. Karalis estimated that Angelopoulos in his previous films had
aimed to reconstruct the past, but in Megalexandros he aimed to
visualize how the past events lose their historicity and are
transformed into legends and epic stories.46 But is this a positive
or negative development? For Karalis, it was a most negative one
and thus he defined Angelopoulos as a revisionist who wrote against
the mythologization of history. The interpretation of Karalis is
rather “Western”, for the very same transformation can also be seen
in positive terms. This is certainly an Orthodox reading: when
facts become legends and myths, it is not a pitiful loss of truth
but a solemn sanctification, transfiguration and, eventually,
canonization of the original phenomena.47 That is, Alexander passes
away from mortal life and is resurrected in the realm of myth and
mythical truth.
Finally, the third ending in Megalexandros shows a child of the
village riding slowly to modern Athens, carrying in himself the
complexities of Greek history and myths, dreams and failures.
Alexander is taken into our time. All the time-layers he carries
within himself constitute the Greek soul.
Reception
Megalexandros won a number of prizes. In the home field, it
dominated the Thessaloniki film festival, being awarded not only
with the Gold Award for the best film but also with awards for Best
Photography, Best Scenography and Best Sound Recording. Outside
Greece, however, the film was considered an exotic oddity.
Nonetheless, at the Venice film festival (1980) it was awarded with
the Golden Lion for the best “experimental film”, as well as Award
of the International Film Critics (FIPRESCI). Overall, however, it
seems that enthusiasm was restricted to small circles of film
lovers.
It was exactly the matters related to the “Byzantine structure”
that were indefinite enough to guarantee that the movie was not
understood in full. Even in Greece, the overall reception of
Megalexandros was rather negative in the politically turbulent
situation of that time. Leftists considered the movie inappropriate
because
46 Karalis, “Theo Angelopoulos’ Early Films and the Demystification
of Power,” in The Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos, ed. Angelos
Koutsourakis & Mark Steven (Edinburgh University Press, 2015),
128. 47 As noted earlier, Angelopoulos himself welcomed all
readings. However, the use of music in the final scenes suggest
that he aimed to create solemn and sacred contents for the
mythologization process.
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27
of portraying leftists as cruel and unrealistic.48 For
conservatives, the mere option of highlighting a revolution was
intolerable. For some on the left, even the depiction of Alexander
on a white horse was a mockery of Aris; for many in the church and
in the right, it was a plain mockery of St George. The escaping
prisoners that ruined a revolution were disturbing for left and
right alike in the situation when the Communist Party had only just
been legalised and exiles allowed to return. The bourgeois British
lords seemed to represent the American allies of Greece, and the
Italian anarchists corresponded to extra-parliamentary groups of
the New Left in Italy. Overall, to read the film merely as an
allegory for contemporary politics essentially trivializes the
narrative.49
In short, the world did not understand the film, and Greece largely
misunderstood it. Therefore, it is all the more noteworthy that the
recent academic literary interest dealing with Angelopoulos has
struggled with the film a great deal, and it has been greatly
analysed more than thirty years after its release. This shows the
greatness of the film: it was perhaps not ahead of its time but
quite literally above time. This, again, is also among the basic
aims of liturgical action.
Conclusion
Megalexandros is the most Orthodox and most Byzantine work in
Angelopoulos’s oeuvre, and indeed, one of the most “Orthodox
movies” of all times, if there is such a term. Certainly, it is the
only movie structured in the form of a Byzantine liturgy, in the
words of the director himself. Nevertheless, Angelopoulos himself
welcomed all kind of readings, and attempts to define one correct
meaning at the expense of others were in his eyes awkward, so there
is no need to suggest that the present conclusions should be taken
as his definite stance. Yet what he himself said about the movie
points compellingly in the same direction.
Overall, the structure of Byzantine liturgy can be discerned on
three levels. First, the visual settings of scenes contain some
explicit iconic settings related to baptism, the Eucharist and St
George, in addition to a few more obscure ones such as the Entry
into Jerusalem and some “semi-iconic” posing in a few scenes. The
influence of Byzantine icons and frescoes is obvious.
Secondly, the soundscape creates effects and impressions that have
obvious parallels with Byzantine liturgical singing and its
effects, even though the music mostly consists of religious folk
songs rather than actual liturgical hymnody. The singing displays
the way in which the ecclesiastical spirit was at the heart of
traditional Greek village culture, but it also exemplifies how the
film constitutes a secular application of certain liturgical
principles. Moreover, there is a very particular use of a
liturgical hymn, the Troparion of the cross, which seems to
function as symbol of power, or perhaps more precisely, the will to
power again, in the collective sense.
Thirdly, the structural elements of the narrative function
“liturgically” in a phenomenological sense: they create turns,
shifts and moods that resemble the state of mind when one is
present in Byzantine liturgical settings. In particular, Alexander
leads the village very much in a same way as a bishop leads the
liturgy. This applies to the visual elements of the narrative on
the one hand, and their reception on the other. The result is
something that may look mysterious but feels like Byzantine
liturgy.
48 Angelopoulos remained sympathetic to the left, since it aimed to
represent the poor, but he was also aware of its essential problems
and dysfunctionality. Thus, he chose to show the beauty of the
socialist dream (in movies such as The Hunters) rather than promote
it any practical sense. 49 Georgakas, “Megalexandros”, 135.
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The article is dedicated to the memory of the actor Omero Antonutti
(19352019), aka Megalexandros, who sadly passed away during the
process of the writing of this article, on 5 November 2019, at the
age of 84. May his memory be eternal.
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